SUNDAY AFTERNOON
The river was lower now.
Elena stood on the muddy bank, her boots sinking slightly into the wet earth, watching the gray water rush past. The rain had stopped yesterday, but the Grey River was still swollen, still hungry, still carrying the memory of the storm downstream. The air smelled like wet pine and decay and something else—something metallic, like old blood or rusted iron.
Billy was twenty feet ahead of her, walking along the edge of the water, his hands